


The Dragons' Song

by Lunagrape



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark is still human, Book Elements, Daenerys Targaryen Deserves Better, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, Daenerys Targaryen-centric, Dan&David can suck it, Dorne fix it, F/F, F/M, Jon Snow can speak more than 4 words, Jonerys, M/M, Mad Queen Cersei, Margaery Tyrell is Alive, Other, Political Jon Snow, Queen of Thorns, Season 7 Fix it, Season 8 Fix It, Slow Burn, The Rose grows strong, Valyrian restoration, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:46:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22134262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunagrape/pseuds/Lunagrape
Summary: While preparing to leave Mereen to start her conquest of Westeros, Daenerys has an ominous prophetic dream about her would-be end and decides to do things differently.Crawling out of the smouldering rubble of the Sept of Baelor, a freshly widowed Margaery Tyrell vows to bring the woman who murdered her brother and father to justice; whatever the cost.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Grey Worm/Missandei, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 61
Kudos: 307





	1. Bad Omens

**Author's Note:**

> Let's face it, season 8 of Game of thrones, and big parts of season 7 too, sucked. This here is my attempt to do the characters justice.... and some shameless wish fulfilment.

_Snow was falling around her. No, not snow. Ash. Or was it? The big, white fluffy flakes falling and fluttering around her had a strange property. It carried the chill of death but crumbled into dust when she touched it. Daenerys recognised this sensation. She had seen this before when she was a prisoner in Quarth. The visions started picturesquely: a she-lion, resting smugly on the ruins of what must have been a great building, green smoke and embers warming her as she casually leant down and stomped out a withering flower doing its best to escape the rubble. The next vision: a pack of wolves, all with their backs to each other, facing in different directions. Over the red she-wolf's head soared birds of prey, curious, judging, ready to strike. The visions came as flashes. Some clear and easy to make out, like the wolves and the lion, some more blurry and unclear, like a thorned root, slowly ensnaring a crown. Whose crown? The images came quicker to her now, it was overwhelming. A flayed man turning to dust, a dragons egg freezing over and cracking in the frost, what? wait! Snakes in the sand eating their own tails. Take me back to the dragons egg, please! Another egg, ensnared by Krakens arms and pulled under the waves, bursting in the cold depths of the sea. Rhaegal? Daenerys spun around, desperate to reach her child, but the image had already past. A tower is split in the middle and 30 feet of rock crashes into the moat, bludgeoning the poor ducks below. The last egg re-petrifies and turns to dust, like leaves on the wind. Please make it stop!_

_And it does._

_All the visions stop flitting around her and all that Daenerys can see before her is Missandei. Sweet, wise Missandei, her best friend in the world. The kind woman is crying tears of blood, all light gone from her eyes. She is singing a song of lament, but Daenerys can't make out the words. "Missandei?" Daenerys takes a step closer. then another. Missandei's hands are chained, and in her lap, cradled in her own hands, is her severed head._

#### Daario

Daenerys woke up with a blood-curdling scream, sitting up bolt right in her bed and causing Daario to reach for his blade and leap to his feet, ready to strike the assailant before noticing that there was no one there in the first place. No one but him and his Queen, and now Missandei and Grey Worm, who came bolting into the room, eyes round as the moon with worry. "Your Grace, what is wrong?" Missandei was at the Queen's side immediately, her voice soft and comforting, and Daario, realizing that there was no actual threat, let his sword arm fall limply to his side and scratched his neck awkwardly with his free hand. 

"Nightmare, it seems. And a bad one too. I've never seen her react like this before," he answered to no one in particular, assuming correctly that the young woman was waiting for the Queen's own reply. Having calmed down and seemingly realised she was indeed safe, Daenerys looked at him as he spoke, swallowed and looked at Missandei again with a confirming nod. 

"What is happening?" Daario looked over his shoulder lazily to see Tyrion Lannister, the imp, rush into the room, no doubt terrified something might have happened to his latest investment. The Westerosi lord swore he had come to Mereen to serve their queen, but Daario didn't believe that for one second. The imp reeked of opportunism, no doubt only seeing his Queen as a potential step in his own ladder towards power. 

"I'm fine, Missandei, everyone. It is as Daario says, I had a nightmare." Daenerys seemed to have got her bearings by now and was no longer shaking. Her violet gaze was directed at him as she nodded in acknowledgement and he felt his knees go weak as if his body finally allowed him to feel the worry her scream had initially caused. As a warrior, his instinct was to fight first, feel later, and now those feelings were hitting him hard. 

"Well," he started, putting his sword back in its place and lifting the sheets to crawl back under them and to his Queen's deliciously naked side, "there are still quite a few hours until daybreak, I say we try to get some more rest. Big days ahead!" He was fully expecting them all to agree with him, Lord Tyrion certainly was, already having turned around and made ready to leave the room, and was therefore surprised when the Queen shook her silver head softly. "No. I need. I'm going to go for a ride. I need to see my children." 

Before Daario had the chance to protest, Daenerys had silenced him with another look and risen out of bed to get dressed. Having put on her blue dress with white trousers she had worn when they first met, his silver Queen simply raised her hand to cup Missandei's cheek affectionately, then exited out the balcony where she took off on Drogon, the black beast.

#### Daenerys

The cool night wind seemed to clear her mind, and it became increasingly clear to Daenerys that she was indeed, still in Mereen and not in the ruins of the Red keep that continued to plague her dreams. Sighing, she relaxed her back and leaned down against Drogon's hot scales, letting him decide where they were going with her being just a passenger. _I cannot let those visions come to pass_ she thought to herself, stroking her oldest son's scales. He purred in response, an action that made the entire portion on his back that she was sitting on vibrate. Daenerys smiled and hummed. After Drogon had chosen her as his rider, their bond had become stronger. While the bond between her and all her dragons would always be strong, due to her being their mother, there was something particular about the way she could communicate with Drogon now. It was like he knew her innermost thought and desires. As if they were both an extension of each other.

About three hours later, as the new day dawned and the sun was stretching is fingers over the horizon, Drogon landed on the roof of the Great Pyramid, gently lowering his shoulder to let his mother climb down from his back. He nuzzled her softly, making sure he didn't knock her over, and then took flight again, setting course for his nest just outside the city. Left standing on the balcony, Daenarys watched her child fly away. She had made some decisions about her future dealings that would have to be set in motion as soon as the city woke. The dream, she had decided, had indeed been prophetic, it had been a warning about a possible future, a future she refused to let come true. Westeros was much more political than the Great Grass Sea or the Bay of Dragons. Here in the east, power had been about muscle, but in the west, they played a different game. A game of knowledge and lies. And if she wanted to survive such a place, or even rule it. She would have to be prepared to play that game on their terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, this turned out way shorter than I'd hoped. oh well, it is my first chapter *ever* here on ao3 so, I guess it's acceptable. Anyhow, it is meant as an introduction, so I'll allow it this once. 
> 
> I hope it tickled some of your fancies, and I'll see you again in the next chapter~


	2. Shall we begin?

####  Daenerys 

Although she had been awake most of the night, Daenerys felt no need to rest. The flight, and the conclusions she had made, had left her invigorated. As she entered her bedchamber through the huge balcony doors she could see that her bed was empty and made up, and a plate of fruit and cheese had been left waiting for her on her desk. Good. That meant the day had been officially started and she could begin setting her plans into action.

Daenerys grabbed a piece of cheese and nibbled it absentmindedly for a moment, then grabbed a vine of grapes and left the sleeping chamber. On her way down to the throne room she popped a few grapes into her mouth, having herself a rather casual breakfast rather than stopping up and make a ritual out of it, as one so often does with one’s meals.

As soon as she entered the throne room she could see that this is where her (judging by facial expressions) worried councillors had been waiting, and for quite some time too, she guessed, judging from the empty glass of wine next to Lord Tyrion, and the angle on which he was standing. Daenerys suspected that was hardly his first bottle, nor his third.

A chorus of “Your Grace!”’s sounded as they all took note of her. Daenerys couldn’t help but smile: it was reassuring to hear people be glad to see her. “I assure you all that I am perfectly fine,” she started as she took a lazy seat at the top of the staircase, leaning her back against the stone bench she used as a throne and popping another grape into her mouth. 

In front of her usual audience she would have assumed a more regal posture and placed herself gracefully on the throne. But these weren’t common people: these were her council. They were people she trusted both professionally and privately. Missandei and Grey Worm were her most treasured friends, save Jorah. Of course, her old bear was on a most important mission to heal himself and was thus not currently to be seen among them. Daenerys had to admit she had spent many an unproductive hour hoping and praying for his safety, but this would not be one of them. There were matters at hand that needed immediate attention. Besides, wallowing for hours about wishes and hopes didn’t actually help anyone, and thus Daenerys had the utmost confidence in that Jorah Mormont would not think any less of her for compartmentalising the situation.

Present in the throne room were also the aforementioned and annoyingly drunk Tyrion Lannister, whose inebriation Daenerys had elected to ignore today. The imp had a remarkable knack for being high-functioning in matters of politics no matter how blasted he was, and Daenerys reckoned he must be a force to be reckoned with at diplomatic parties. At least she hoped he was. The Imp of Casterly Rock came highly recommended by his Westerosi peers, but in all honesty, Daenerys was yet to see proof of his incredible brilliance. As if he knew what she was thinking, Lord Lannister hiccuped loudly, unknowingly placing a well-timed full stop to her mental notes of him.

Also present was Daario Naharis, Captain of the sell-sword company The Second Sons, and her current bed-mate. Daenerys knew he wanted to be more than that, and she sometimes wished she could give him what he wanted, but there simply wasn’t more to give. While she enjoyed his company as a friend, and his cock as a lover, Daenerys couldn’t see herself wanting anything more from him. Maybe it was cold of her, but Daario was a big boy. He knew what he had gotten himself into, and had been reminded of it many a time. Daenerys frankly thought to highly of him to imagine she needed to be too gentle about his feelings on the day when their arrangement would end.

Other people in the room included Qhono, her recently appointed General of her Dothraki warriors, Thirna, the High Priestess of the Dosh Khaleeen, Loran zo Fator, a prominent Meereenese noble, Marsali and Niall, representatives of the Meereenese freedfolk, and of course Barristan Selmy, official Captain of her Queensguard, although also it’s current sole member.

“I am very happy you all decided to gather here so early in the morning, although I guess it was rather obvious from this nights events that I would be needing to see you all come morning.” Daenerys smiled warmly at her small council and got mostly nervous smiles in return. “I do apologise to those of you who were alarmed at my sudden night-ride though. It was not my intention to worry anyone. I simply felt the need to clear my head. There will be made some great changes to my plans today.” At that, Daenerys winked at her audience, and at Tyrion in particular. The imp visibly groaned and poured himself another glass. Daenerys didn’t know how much trouble he personally had gone through to plan the logistics of her move from Meereen to her family’s ancestral seat at Dragonstone, but she had noticed that he enjoyed cautioning her whenever she made any big decisions. It was almost as if he was perpetually disappointed he was not the actual ruler and she was just a figurehead for the Crown. It didn’t matter though. As long as he did his duty and gave good council, Daenerys could see his value as a council member.

“The first major change is that I will not be setting sail for Dragonstone today. Those plans are hereby halted indefinitely.” Her voice was soft and calm. This was a decision she had been quite certain about when the idea first came to her mind on dragonback. She paused to let the news sink in for the members of her small council and she was very right to as they all looked mightily confused. Well, not all. Qhono and Thirna looked simply relieved that fate wouldn’t be tested today and they didn’t have to cross the salt water.  
“I can understand how you’re all confused, after all, taking back the lands of my ancestors has been a very high priority of mine ever since my brother Viserys died.” Daenerys smiled to herself and ate another grape. Hopefully Viserys’ ghost wasn’t taking this delay in plans as too great of an insult, but even if he did, it did not matter. What she was about to do was more important than some ugly iron chair, in yet another country that didn’t want her.  
“Ever since I was born, I have been on the run. As you all know, my family was deposed, and my brother and I were forced to live in exile following our parents’ demise. I have never known home. Not until I carved one out for myself.” Sitting up a bit more straight, Daenerys cast out her hands as if to hold the entire city of Meereen in her arms. “Meereen is my home! I took it, and I swore to protect it, and protecting it does not mean “abandon for your old goal as soon as convenient!”” Leaning forward and resting her elbows on her open knees Daenerys looked at each of her council members before letting her violet gaze come to rest on the Meereenese noble “I promised to rule this city, to raise it from its slavery-ridden shame into a city that will prosper with trade and culture, and I can’t very well do that from the other side of the Narrow sea. There’s an economy that needs a complete overhaul here, and what kind of Queen would I be if I just left and let my subjects figure it out all on their own. Don’t answer that, Tyrion.”

Daenerys stood up, turned and took her seat on the throne, her back straight and her fingers stroking the opposite edges of the small stone bench. “The first thing we need to do, the first thing we _ever should_ have done is compose a comprehensive list of every freedman or woman, their age and their skills. That way we can better put them to use in employment that suits their abilities. No point in using a master weaver as a stonemason. Secondly, we need to arrange education for the freedfolk. Primarily for the children, but also for the adults who wish to learn. There must be made workshops for the construction of goods, and there must be built houses for families who earlier didn’t have one. Lord zo Fator, I presume you and the other noble elders will be helpful in this endeavour? I shall name it, the great atonement, and it’s the least we nobles can do for those who have been kept in servitude for so long”

Daenerys made a point of noting both herself as well as the Meereenese as the nobles who would pick up the costs for the education of the former slaves. She had a feeling that the former slave owners would feel less chastised if this was phrased as a community project rather than a penalty placed on them for their complacency. It wasn’t as they didn’t deserve to be punished, but Daenerys had a feeling she would get further quicker with the carrot than with the stick. The gracious lord seemed to be thinking the along the same lines, and gave a deep nod. Not that he had much of a choice, really.

“Your Grace, with all due respect,” Daenerys always knew Tyrion was ragingly opposed to her planned course of action whenever he started a sentence thusly. “This is a monumental amount of work you have laid out before us. It could take years! And Westeros-“

“And what of Westeros, Lord Tyrion? I’ve said it before, although in your defence you had yet to join my council then, what good am I as Queen to the Seven Kingdoms if I can’t even rule one city?”

He didn’t seem to have expected that, but as always, Tyrion Lannister would never stay tongue- tied for long. “You said once that you wished to break the wheel of oppressive regimes in Westeros. How do you plan to do that while you are here? My sister-“

“Ah yes. Your sister, ”Daenerys grinned and looked skyward in a full-bodied eye roll. “Lady Lannister will just have to make good on her vow as protector of the realm. I don’t see any reason for a sudden rush westwards. It is not as if my rightful subjects have any more right to my attention than my eastern ones.” With that she gazed lovingly at them all again. “Slavery has made a mess in this region. It is an injustice my Valyrian ancestors started, and it is a wrong I, Daenerys of house Targaryen vow to right. Any objections to that?” Her last question phrased like a direct challenge to the exiled Westerosi Lord, she held his gaze until he bowed his head and yielded “No, your Grace.”

“Good,” Daenerys said, relaxed her posture and ate her last grape. “Then, shall we begin?”


	3. Red Doors And Lemon Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys abandons her plans of Westerosi conquest and prepares to continue her rule of the Bay of Dragons. But as any ruler can attest to, some people can never be satisfied.

####  Daenerys 

The day had flown by with the logistics of the conquest that never happened. New, permanent barracks had to be set up for the Unsullied, as well as a camping grounds for the Dothraki who didn’t wish to move into the city. Missandei, Tyrion and Thirna has been put on the task of registering every single citizen who would make Meereen and its surroundings their home as well as their respective skills and vocations. It was no small task, but it was one that needed to be done, and she had the utmost confidence in the abilities of her three advisors. While Missandei and Tyrion mainly dealt with the common people and former slaves, Thirna, as the High Priestess of the Dosh Khaleen had a highly respected role among the Dothraki and Daenerys could thus depend on her success. Grey Worm had a similar task among the Unsullied, and Daario were responsible for the Second Sons, although Daenerys suspected most of the men would stay soldiers. Who knew though, maybe they had a hidden bard or carpenter in their ranks?

The sun was nearing its golden hour of sunset before Daenerys had a moment to pause and breathe. Her entire day had been a never ending marathon of paperwork and delegating her so-called civil generals. Even though she would not be leaving, she still wanted some leaders chosen for each of the groups of the city so that she would be able to hear a balanced council. Lord zo Fator and the former slave Marsali would be working together on parting the city up into functional districts from each of which two representatives would be welcome to give council and thereby have a say in how their city was governed.

Aside from paperwork, Daenerys had taken a chance to visit the current Dothraki camp to see to it that the tents got up right. She did feel a lingering guilt for how she had practically destroyed their culture by having them all leave Vaes Dothrak and for burning down the temple of the Dosh Khaleen. But then she remembered the astounding violence of said culture and her guilt was eased. She had enjoyed the days in the sun with Khal  
Drogo and she was certain the Dothraki culture had other nourishing and positive traits. The Dothraki values of strength, bravery and a willingness to live in the present had etched its way into her soul the same way a creek erodes it’s way through even the toughest stone, and she wanted to learn more about this culture so that she could protect its people without them having to completely abandon who they were as a people.

Now being the Khaleesi Regnant and not simply the Khalasars primary consort she was able to see and learn from the entire camp without anyone protesting that such things were beneath her station. Or, well, they still protested, but that was the good thing about being the highest figure of authority: she was at complete liberty to ignore such protests.

That day, Daenerys had gotten a good overview of the goods that the Dothraki made. She had been well acquainted with their goats during her days in the Dothraki sea, and had eaten enough goat jerky to last her a lifetime and then some. But goats weren’t only flesh, and although she knew the Dothraki preferred mare’s milk, goats milk could be used for cheese, and goats cheese could be perfected into a fine artisanal craft.

Additionally, Daenerys’ trip to the Dothraki camp allowed her to bond more with her former nomadic citizens. Many of the women, who before wouldn’t have much to say in this male warrior-centric society were at first intimidated by her presence, as authority figures paying attention to them had rarely brought any good kind of attention. After Daenerys had tried her hand (and failed catastrophically) at their looms however, and laughed heartily at her failure before leaving the craft to the women who actually knew how to operate it, they seemed to be able to lower their shoulders, getting a taste of just what kind of ruler their Mare of Fire was. 

Having spent so much time with Missandei and her new Meereenese handmaidens, Daenerys had forgotten what it was like smelling the scent of leather wherever she went and rubbing camphor salve into her hands to ease the friction burns from hours of riding. The sensation had crept up on her like a late-evening shadow, but when she recognised it it had knocked her off her feet. 

Irri.

Her first handmaiden when she first married Khal Drogo had been gone from this world for many years now, yet her smile could be seen on the face on her Dothraki kinswomen. Daenerys allowed herself one wishful moment wondering what her old friend would have thought of who she had become and what she had done for her people. Would she be proud? Daenerys decided to think so. Irri had been gentle and kind. She had been proud of the Dothraki stories and spirituality, and would have been an excellent ambassador for the infamously violent clan’s more civilised aspects.

Now, as the sun was saying its last goodbyes for the day, Daenerys was standing alone on the balcony of her great pyramid. She was the child of many cultures. Her oldest ancestors were Valyrian, her parents and brother had been Westerosi, and she herself had found a home with the Dothraki. Now her home was Meereen. She swore to herself that this one would last. Meereen was her home, and she would shape it to be a safe haven for those who were being chased around without somewhere safe to call their own. Daenerys knew that technically she had not just one, but two great castles back in Westeros that Viserys had called home. But she had never been to the Red Keep, and Dragonstone had been her home for all of a week before they had to flee. For Viserys, the goal had been to go _home_ to King’s landing and to the throne. But Daenerys didn’t need a throne in the other side of the world. The Iron Throne has never done anything for her but send assassins and turn her brother mad. Besides, if the dream could be considered a warning, which Daenerys did, she was after all descended from Daenys the dealer, Daenerys stood to lose everything if she relentlessly chased her brother’s dream of reclaiming the Seven Kingdoms. Daenerys was more than fine with the Meereenese throne as long as she had it as a place to call home. To her, with Missandei, Grey Worm, Ser Barristan and her sons by her side, the entire Great Pyramid was painted red, and the air smelled ripe with lemons.

————————————————————————————

A fortnight passed, and the day to day rulings of the Bay of Dragons kept Daenerys busy and she was made more and more certain by each passing day that she had made the right decision in staying in Meereen. 

With the help from some of her Dothraki who weren’t completely in love with the idea of living in such a bustling metropolis, she had been able to set up a pony express-like system between the three great cities of the Bay of Dragons, making the commute between cities a little easier for those who didn’t travel on dragon back. Essentially everyone but her, that is.

Additionally, if there was one thing the whole debacle with the Sons of the Harpy and the Wise Masters had taught her, it was that she couldn’t just be a sitting duck, relying on others to always run to her aid in a pinch. Tyrion has insisted that wasting her time learning how to wield a dagger was beneath her as she was a dragon rider and therefore more than capable in the battlefield, besides he didn’t like the thought of her in action from the get go.  
“One archer gets in a lucky shot, and it’s all over your Grace. What would we do if you die? It all falls apart without you!”

“Completely disregarding the fact that Aegon and his sisters were both dragon-riders and warriors-“

“Exactly my point, your Grace. It was but a single arrow in Meraxes’ eye that killed Queen Rhaenys.”

“Very well, I see your point. However, you cannot argue against the fact that my sons are the greatest asset to our army, and a dragon is more vulnerable without their rider. Besides, if an assassin sneaks into the throne room, it won’t do me much good to call on Drogon. He wouldn’t fit in there if he clawed down the entire western wall. I will be learning to defend myself Lord Tyrion, this discussion is over. And so will you.”

“Me?! Your Grace, I must protest.” Tyrion looked like he was trying to protest himself into an impromptu implosion, backing away like a cat with a piece of bread around it’s face, but Daenerys dismissed his objection with a flick of her hand.

“Now, I know you are a hardened veteran of great battles like the Battle of Blackwater, but with all due respect, that could have gone better for your person, could it not?” Daenerys said, obviously referring to Lord Lannister’s facial scar. Tyrion huffed in protest but still managed a counter argument: “Your Grace, while I acknowledge that we wouldn’t have won the Siege of Meereen without your dragons, you are gaining a rather fearsome reputation by using them in battle, and that does not bode well for diplomacy.” “And what would you have me do, Lord Tyrion? Simply ask my enemies nicely to please cease their hostilities? I don’t know where you picked up this nonsense, but in this world, battles aren’t won by relying on the other side playing by the rules. My knowledge of recent Westerosi history isn’t as great as the parts that have been written down, but won’t you please tell me how the Young Wolf lost his head and his crown?” Lord Tyrion’s voice fell to a mutter. When he had argued this with his Lord Father, Tywin Lannister had claimed that by breaking the ancient rules of hospitality by having his men murder Robb Stark at his uncle’s wedding after having offered bread and salt, he had saved thousand of soldiers’ lives. Still, Tyrion considered it one of the greater stains of shame upon his family. And considering the events of his sister’s reign, that was saying something. “Still, your Grace, using dragons to brutally crack down on insubordination might bring unwanted parallels to be drawn between yourself and Maegor the Cruel.” Daenerys chuckled “That might be, I am already twice widowed, who knows what my body count will be at the end of my reign.” Lord Tyrion looked completely horrified at her statement and Daenerys rolled her eyes. Gods, she meant to remember that the Lannister Lord had been advertised as having some wits about him and thus able to understand dark humour. “Besides,” she added, “horrible as he was, Maegor knew that sometimes a quarter given is a quarter wasted. Just look at how he dealt with the Faith uprising. If your sister had taken them out immediately instead of pandering to the High Sparrow just to get rid of her son’s wife, she wouldn’t have such a mess on her hands.” This seemed to finally silence Lord Tyrion, and he politely bowed out of the conversation. The next morning, the entire small council (with the exception of the Noble Lord zo Fator, who would watch from a distance and in a comfortable shade with a glass of imported wine in his hand) met with Daario, Grey Worm and Qhono to be repeatedly knocked into the dirt, attempting to learn blade-based self-defence.

They had been practising for about a week when the message came from Varys that Cersei had blown up the Sept of Baelor, that the boy-king Tommen Baratheon along with his wife Margaery Tyrell were dead, and that Cersei had had herself crowned Queen regnant of the Seven Kingdoms in the aftermath.

“Son of a bitch.” Was Daario’s immediate reaction when Tyrion read the letter aloud at the small council meeting.

Daenerys had reassured them all that this meant nothing to her reign. It didn’t matter who sat on her rightful throne in Westeros. Her home was Meereen, and she would stay there.

A few days later, an official notice of worry was posted by Lord zo Fator on behalf of the Meereenese nobles. While they had seen the change in demeanour from Daenerys biggest dragon, and therefore felt comfortable that she could control the beast, the two other dragons were rarely seen after the Battle if the Bay, and the nobles therefore worried that Viserion and Rhaegal might grow too feral without regular contact with humans. 

While Daenerys had thought the cause for worry odd, she had to admit that she too had been puzzled by the shyness of her two youngest sons and launched an inquiry into where they left for when they weren’t nesting in the hills like Drogon was. 

It had taken a few days, but one morning after combat drills, Marsali had ran panting to Daenerys to inform her Queen that her dragons had been found in the dungeons of the great pyramid.

Daenerys had found it strange that the dragons had voluntarily returned to their place of imprisonment, but the reason became clear as soon as she entered the dungeon. 

Deep into the shadows of the dungeon, in a nest of the bones of a thousand goats, Viserion was wrapped around five dragon’s eggs: all vibrant and alive and nothing like the petrified rocks he and his brothers had hatched from.

“I thought they were all male?” Marsali had whispered in Ghiscari, her voice full of wonder. “They are,” Daenerys replied in high Valyrian; her Ghiscari pronunciation was not yet good enough to be uttered out loud, but she could understand Ghiscari and Marsali could understand Valyrian, so they made do, “but dragons are hermaphoroditic; they can change sex depending on mating needs.” Marsali didn’t reply in words, but nodded insistently to show that she had understood while keeping her eyes glued on the very maternal Viserion.

“How long until they hatch?” the Meereenese woman asked, her gaze unwavering. “I don’t know, honestly. In my family we left eggs in the cradle of newborn babes, and the egg would hatch when the dragon was ready. With Viserion and his brothers, I brought them with me into my husband’s funeral pyre.” Daenerys said this with the same tone of voice as one might explain where the vendor they buy silks from lives, and Marsali tore her eyes from the dragon to stare in horror at her Queen. Her Mhysa was like some kind of fairy tail creature: having saved them from slavery without asking anything in return, possessing three dragons: a creature thought extinct for centuries, and now she claimed she had survived a funeral pyre as well? She knew one of her titles was “the unburnt”, but Marsali had only thought that one was a figure of speaking. A new feeling of admiration mixed with fear grew within the small council woman as her Queen declared that they should give the dragon some privacy and exited the dungeon.

About a month later though, the Queen’s peace was once again disrupted when her favourite, Missandei, was kidnapped on a diplomatic mission to Astapor.

As Daenerys throne was placed in Meereen, the other cities of the Bay of Dragons were given less attention, and in between her visits on dragon back it seemed that a freedman known as Cleon the Butcher has risen above his station and taken control of the city. Tyrion and Missandei had been on a routine mission to oversee the construction of a new irrigation system for the fields, but had found themselves in an ambush. Tyrion, with his knack for weaselling himself out of any situation had ridden all night to deliver the news to his Queen and then passed out in the throne room. 

The threatened safety of her dearest friend had made Daenerys see black instantly, fears of the images from her dreams coming true flashing before her eyes. 

Daenerys had jumped atop Drogon at once, soundly ignoring the cautioning words of Ser Barristan and Lord zo Fator: Grey Worm had already grabbed Qhono and left the room, his mind a mirror of hers. However, dragons fly quicker than horses, and Daenerys landed in the Astapori main palace only hours later. Sword in hand she scanned the surroundings intently while Drogon made short process of the guards that showed any hostility. As soon as she climbed down from Drogon though, ready to strike at anyone who dared come at her, none other but Missandei of Naath walked out the doors, blood splattered across her face and staining her silken clothes.

As soon as the realisation hit Daenerys that no one was following Missandei, she let her sword clatter to the ground and ran to her friend, throwing her arms around the other woman’s neck. 

“My dearest friend, I feared the worst!” Tears streaked down Daenerys’ cheeks as she pulled back to look at her best friend’s face. Missandei had a vacant look in her eyes, and it was only now Daenerys noticed the bloodied stiletto dagger in her hand. “Valar getys” Missandei choked. All men bleed.

Daenerys, a little shocked at the dispassion in her gentle friend’s voice, nodded solemnly and wrapped her hands around the dagger Missandei was holding. At this Missandei seemed to awaken. As if she had burnt herself on the delicate blade, Missandei let out a shriek and dropped the dagger, only to go weak at the knees and collapse into panicked sobs in Daenerys’ (who had dropped to her knees to support her friend) lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, quite a lot going on in this chapter.  
> For clarity’s sake about two months should have passed by the end of this chapter since the Siege of Meereen if I’ve done my math right.
> 
> So, there’s still a lot of setting being dealt with in this chapter as well, we’re doing a slow build here.  
> For those of you aching to see Margaery again, she will pop up as soon as I’ve got “my” affairs settled in Meereen. I’m thinking chapter 5, but I can’t making any promises.
> 
> Anyhow, feel free to leave some constructive criticism in the comments ~


	4. A bonfire large enough to be seen across the world

#### Tyrion

The aftermath of The Butcher’s Rebellion had been a mess. Missandei had managed to wound the self-proclaimed emperor after he had taken her to his palace to gloat, and Daenerys’ landing had proved to be perfect timing. All the emperors horses and men didn’t have much to say when they rushed into the compound to apprehend the escaped prisoner only to be faced point blank with a pissed off Mother of Dragons and her equally furious son. 

After the first symphony of screams died down from the frontline that was now very much on fire, the rebel forces turned on each other. Cleon the Butcher and his “generals” were put in chains, and it took Daenerys all her willpower to keep herself from reducing the prisoners to ashes then and there. A similar struggle took place within Grey Worm once he arrived at the scene, however as soon as he saw that Missandei was virtually unharmed, he made peace with Daenerys’ decision to bring them back to Meereen to stand trial. He didn’t understand why, really. His treason was clear as day, and she would be completely in her right to deal with it on the spot, but he figured she wished to make an example of him, and Grey Worm couldn’t say he disagreed. Too long had rebels and traitors risen, taking advantage of his Queen’s mercy and kindness. But no more.

After they returned to Meereen, the Queen shut herself away for a few days, to the great concern of everyone involved. The only one allowed into her private chambers was Missandei, and even then she didn’t speak much. The Queen seemed to be lost in thought, but what she was thinking of, no one knew for certain.

On the fifth day of her self-imposed isolation, Daenerys entered the throne room long enough to announce that she wanted bards and mummers invited to an event that would be held in a fortnight, but when Tyrion has inquired as to the nature of this sudden event, the Queen has wordlessly retreated to her chambers.

Finally, on the tenth day, the small council was gathered in the meeting room. Daenerys was already seated when the first members; Missandei and Grey Worm, closely followed by Ser Barristan and Tyrion, arrived at the scene. 

Sitting at the head of the table, with her back against the balcony, the Queen appeared calm. There was something in her poise, Tyrion’s best attempt at explaining it would be “regal”, but since none of the rulers he had personally seen in his lifetime could have been described as worthy rulers, Tyrion didn’t feel qualified to pass that judgement. Sure, his sister had moments of it, in her early days of keeping up appearances and before Jon Arryn had died. His father had possessed something similar, though more like that of a general than a king. Sansa Stark had possessed more of it in her finger nail than her late betrothed could ever have hoped to muster in his entire, albeit short, life.

For once in his life finding himself without any kind of witty remark, Tyrion seated himself on her left flank at the table.

Once everyone had seated themselves, Daenerys, who had been sitting completely still like some kind of marble statue, leant forward, rested her elbows on the table and touched her outstretched fingertips against each other. “I have an idea, and I would like to hear all of your council on the matter before I come to a decision.”

The tension could be cut with a knife as they waited to hear the Queen elaborate her plans. Tyrion caught himself holding his breath without noticing and coughed to get some air back into his lungs. “We’re all ears, Your Grace,” he said, being pretty confident no one disagreed. His bet was confirmed by the following cacaphony of clearing throats, coughs and “hrmpf!”’s that followed. The Queen gave a satisfied smile and leaned back.

“Cleon the Butcher and his partners in treason must meet their end. I was thinking by fire.”

The memory of a scene Tyrion had never seen with his own eyes, but been told by many a credible source, his brother and Ser Barristan among them, flashed through his mind, and he feared for a second that Daenerys was not the golden liberator she made herself out to be, but a ghost of her own mad father.

Daenerys seemed to register the panic in his eyes, and the horrified look on a few other members of the council’s faces too. He was reassured to see that the thought frightened Missandei, as the woman unquestionably held the most sway with the Queen, but he was surprised at the lack of reaction from the likes of Ser Barristan, as well as the representatives of the freedfolk and the Bay of Dragons’ commoners.

Tyrion had expected Ser Barristan Selmy, being the only one in this room to have witnessed the mad king’s ruthlessness in person, to show more if a reaction, and the fact that he didn’t spoke volumes. Tyrion just wasn’t yet sure of the nature of these volumes.

“Your Grace, are you sure you want to re-claim imagery that will bring forth vivid recollections of your father’s reign?”

Tyrion didn’t feel any hesitation of bringing up the late Targaryen king’s shortcomings. Had it been his sister he had talked to, he might except a short trip to a black cell for such insolence, but he knew Daenerys well enough to feel safe in the knowledge that she knew what her father had done, and that she made no excuses for his decisions.

The Queen curved her lip and nodded in acknowledgement of Tyrion’s caution. “It is true that many will see me executing criminals by dragon fire as a confirmation of my status as the Mad King’s daughter. However, I wish to reclaim dragon fire as a symbol for my house. It is a forceful method of execution, yes, but no more cruel or inhumane than, say, beheading is. A beheading can take anywhere from one to seven strokes if the executioner is incompetent, and even then, the victim might not be dead. Whereas with the flames of my sons, the victim will be dead and past their pain in a matter of seconds.”

The Queen directed her gaze at Tyrion, her violet eyes piercing his own blue eyes with a look that was equally pleading and commanding at the same time. “Is there any way we can change the public memory of fire from my father’s misrule to something of my own? I am my own person, and my actions are mine. My father gave me nothing but a legacy of terror to right and assassins around every corner. I owe him nothing, and I am not interested in having my reign suffer in the shadows of his memory.”

“That is beautifully put, your Grace.” Tyrion whipped his head around as the older Ser spoke. Ser Barristan didn’t often butt in when Daenerys and Tyrion discussed, and the dwarf found himself intrigued as to what the former Captain of the Mad King’s Gold Cloaks had to add to the conversation.

“We mustn’t be blind to Lord Tyrion’s reminder that most common people, at least in Westeros, will think of the atrocities of the latter years of your father’s reign when they see people being burnt alive, and it is a pretty powerful memory to shake. However, I believe in her Grace, and while it may take time, if we are patient, we can rebuild the public opinion of House Targaryen.”

Looking from the great Ser to the Queen, Tyrion noted that Daenerys seemed pretty pleased with herself over the appraisal. He was vary of monarchs being too pleased with themselves, remembering all too well the smug faces of King Robert and his "son" Joffrey. Then again, Daenerys, in contrast to the Baratheon Kings, had actually proven her mettle so far, taking both Meereen and Yunkai with a minuscule number of casualties on either side. His only fear was that she would eventually grow too sure of her own sense of right and wrong, and make decisions that her current self would agree to be unforgivable. 

"I don't see the problem here," Daario Naharis said, leisurely leaning back in his chair. "Sure, you have a legacy to outrun, what with your father having been such an arsehole. But you won't erase his dickery with inaction and caution. You do it by becoming such a memorable Targaryen, the entire rest of your house will be left a mere footnote in YOUR legacy." The man had the arrogance and charm of his brother Jamie, and the dishonour and recklessness of Bronn. While Tyrion certainly didn't like having him around, especially considering his role as the Queen's lover, he couldn't deny that the Captain of the Second Sons was useful. Annoyingly so, sometimes. The man seemed to be a "sack and pillage first, ask questions (and even check if you're at the right city) later - kind of guy. That made him very difficult to have around when dealing with diplomatic matters. Tyrion trusted Daario's diplomatic sensibilities about as far as he could throw him. And considering he was about double Tyrion's height, that wasn't particularly far.

Daenerys nodded approvingly, her gaze wandering from around the table, stopping at each face, searching for unsaid words before coming to a conclusion. Or at least, that's what Tyrion liked to imagine she was doing. The intention behind such an inquisitive stare could, of course, be to threaten those who disagreed to hold their tongues. Tyrion didn't like having such a pessimistic instinct, but he had to admit: his scepticism had saved his hide and his head more than a few times.

"Then, having heard your council, I have decided to go through with this method of execution." Concluded the Queen, standing up as if to signalise that the matter was finished. "I hear your caution, Lord Tyrion," she said before he had the time to say anything, probably having read the upcoming protest on his face, "however, what Ser Barristan and Daario says makes sense. I can't be afraid to live in my father's shadow for the rest of my life. Rather, I shall endeavour to outgrow it." At that she raised her head, and if Tyrion had ever imagined what regal power looked like, this was it. Daenerys might never have known her mother, but she certainly possessed all of the late Queen's grace and nobility. 

#### Missandei

The meeting had been an intense event. First the discussion about the fate of the rebels, and then the Queen's bombshell about emptying out most of the city.

"After the execution, there will be a great period of relocation," the Queen had started. "A large number of my people live in this Bay because they were stolen from their homes. I'm not much of a liberator if I do not let them leave at their own pleasure. Yes, I have said that everyone is free to leave. But once they do, who is to say slave hunters won't simply re-capture them again? What safety do they have? None. Therefore, Grey Worm, The Unsullied soldiers will take all those willing on a tour around Essos, attempting to reintegrate them into their own peoples. Now I know some tribes have regrettably been rendered completely extinct, in which case you will stay and help them re-build in their old areas." The Queen stopped to take a breath, looking around the table for replies. Her gaze lingered on Missandei, probably registering her protest in her eyes. "Your Grace, we couldn't possibly leave you. A project like this, it would take months, maybe years!"

Although she was shaken with emotion, Missandei wasn't surprised when her Queen smiled warmly. "I understand, Missandei. But as a person who prides herself in being a liberator, I owe you all a chance at actual freedom. On your own terms, not mine. I want every former slave to travel home to their own people, and then stay there for an extended period, at least a month, and then they can make their choice: do you want to stay with your own people, or do you want to come and help make a new world with me?"

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Missandei was still shaken from the news of the Queen's second announcement when the two friends reunited for the evening meal that night. When she opened the doors to the Queen's chambers, Daenerys was nowhere to be seen, but the table was set with fruits and cheese. The flagon of wine that was always present when Daenerys conversed with council members or other people of diplomatic consequence was gone, and in its place was a crystal pitcher filled with clear, cold water. She appreciated that the two of them could enjoy each other's company clear-headed and refreshed. It was a sign that none of them needed to put on airs, that they were genuine towards each other. Having had to wear a mask of dispassion for so many years of her life as a slave, Missandei relished being finally able to be her own person. This new development of Daenerys feeling she had to leave her side in order to truly be free, however, worried her. Did the Queen think their friendship to be merely curtesy? That Missandei only stayed because she was afraid Daenerys would hunt her down atop Drogon if she tried to leave? She had chosen her as her Queen, they all had, why was Daenerys suddenly sending them away like this?

Missandei didn't have too long to ponder these thoughts. As soon as she reached the table and moved to take her seat, the Queen strode in from the balcony, probably having taken in the sights of the city bathed in the golden glow of the low-hanging evening sun.

"Oh I'm beat, Missandei." She exclaimed as she neared the table and sat down on the remaining empty chair. "Great announcements, many reactions, few actually voiced." The Queen tilted her head in her direction with a knowing smile on her lips and her eyebrows quirked in a way that told that she knew the matter wasn't finished for Missandei. 

Missandei smiled shyly, not sure how to phrase her protests against this pilgrimage. At least not using only one language.

"Your Grace, I truly - " Please, Missandei!" Missandei's protest was interrupted before she even managed to voice it. The Queen's voice was gentle. "I understand the importance of rank when we are with the council and among the people, but in private, it is important to me that you understand that we are equals. For the sake of order and structure, I am the Queen and you are my councillor, yes, but in private, can't we simply be Daenerys and Missandei, best friends?"

Missandei lifted her head to look at the other woman. There was something pleading in her eyes. Missandei knew that the Queen had voiced her desire to simply be a commoner before. That her life had been easier and happier. And Missandei guessed she would understand. If Daenerys had been a person of no consequence, the Westerosi nobles wouldn't have felt the need to send assassins after her when she was a child. If Daenerys didn't have such a famous name, she would have been able to simply disappear in the common masses and live an anonymous life. If Daenerys hadn't felt such responsibility for other people's happiness, she wouldn't have to deal with the nonsense of diplomacy and governance. The only happiness she would have to consider would be those she considered her own, like Missandei..

"Your G- Daenerys, please don't send me away! I cannot help you if I am so many miles away from you."

"But, sweet Missandei, Naath is your home. You deserve to see the beaches again!"

Missandei's eyes filled with tears. The beaches. The clear blue water. The butterflies. She longed to see it all again, but it didn't feel right. She still had a job to do here, by the Que- by Daenerys' side. 

Another knowing smile spread on Daenerys' face. "My dear friend, I do not for a second doubt your love for me. Because I love you just as much. But I am about to start a grand reformation of the Bay of Dragons, and I need you to know what you are choosing away if you stay with me. You deserve to be able to really go home again. You deserve being able to make your own choice." A tear now trailed the violet-eyed woman's cheek. "Whatever your choice proves to be, I, as your friend, will be happy with your decision."

Missandei opened her mouth to answer, and a waterfall of words and declarations in a multitude of languages failed to leave her lips. Instead, she closed her mouth, swallowed her protests and nodded. She understood Daenerys' sentiment, she only hoped the Queen understood her own.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

####  Grey Worm 

It took a week to gather the lumber and build the pyre for the rebels, but finally, the structure was finished in the middle of the fighting pit. 20 poles stood atop a wooden platform, surrounded by three straw circles. The underside of the platform was stuffed with tarred bushels of straw, thick logs, and piles of charcoals. 

Grey Worm had personally overseen the construction in order to distance himself from the inner turmoil he felt whenever he saw his Queen. As an Unsullied soldier, he had been indoctrinated to not show, or even have, any feelings, and yet, in the time he had served Queen Daenerys Targaryen he had started feeling less like a faceless killing machine, and more like a human being again. And yet, she wanted him to leave her. To go back to .. wherever it was that he came from. All he could ever remember was being an Unsullied, or training to become an Unsullied. There was no before. There was only after. After he met the Queen, and Missandei of Naath.

The day had entered the golden hour. The sun hung low in the sky, and soon the night sky would be upon them. Grey Worm figured his Queen had wanted the execution bonfire to be as visible against the night sky as possible. Spectators were beginning to arrive now. Last time spectators had filled these rows, the Sons of the Harpy had been amongst them, and his Queen had been forced to flee on dragon back. Grey Worm's shoulders tensed, his gaze scanning the filling tribunes for any potential threats. Around him, he noticed that his fellow Unsullied officers, his brothers, were doing the same. Their unity of action had been mercilessly drilled into them by the Masters, and while he could never be happy for the reason, Grey Worm was thankful for the sense of community and safety the brothers' unity gave him. 

Within two hours, the seats were filled to the brim. Many spectators were standing, some were sitting on the walls. His beloved Missandei and other prominent members of his Queen's great council had taken their seats on the pavilion, and the crowd was now buzzing with anticipation as they awaited the sound that had become so familiar over the last couple of months.

The dragons' cry pierced the skies, and silenced the crowd instantly. Many held their breaths as thousands of pairs of eyes scanned the skies, looking for three familiar shapes. Moments later, three massive shadows soared across the sky. The dragons circled each other a few times before they all landed with surprising grace for such large creatures within the pit. Seated atop Drogon, the largest dragon, his Queen looked fierce and unforgiving as the prisoners were led out the champions' gates and to their final destinations. 

The prisoners were awarded each their pole, with the failed usurper Cleon standing in the middle. Even knowing the life he had known before Daenerys had arrived in Astapor, and the fate that awaited him, Grey Worm had no sympathy for the man. He had made his choice in betraying his liberator, re-enslaving his fellow Astapori freedmen, and now he would face the consequences.

The crowd cheered as his Queen descended her dragon and walked over to the pyre whilst the guards bound the prisoners to their stakes. As soon as they were done, they climbed down from the pyre and took their posts around the pit. His Queen looked as calm as a summer breeze as she watched her would-be victims. Some of the men stared at her defiantly and did their best to spit at the ground before her, some were crying in desperation, some were pleading for mercy, and some were literally shitting themselves. Cleon himself seemed to be doing a mix of all four.

Then, something Grey Worm hadn't anticipated: the crowd was abruptly silenced. His instinct telling him that something was wrong kicked in, and he looked around to see the cause of this disruption. Finally he saw, from the Champions' gate appeared a new figure. Marsali, one of the Meereenese freedwoman that had replaced Mossador, was making her way towards the pyre with a bundle in her arms. She walked up to the centre of the pyre, where all the prisoners were arranged in a circle so that their backs were turned against her, placed the bundle in the middle, then climbed down again to the front of the Lords' pavilion where Ser Barristan and Qhono bent down to help lift her up. The woman had barely taken her seat when Grey Worm heard his Queen speak out in High Valyrian.

"Citizens of the Bay of Dragons! A great wrongdoing has been done towards us! I, Daenerys Stormborn of the royal House Targaryen, have strived to bring you freedom. I have given you the ability to strike the chains from your necks, and you have taken your freedom. And yet! These men thought they had the right to take your freedom away. NO ONE HAS THAT RIGHT!" 

Grey Worm marvelled at the sight of the tiny woman now standing before the pyre. It was as if she herself was fire incarnate. Now she turned from the spectators and staring right at the would-be usurper Cleon, who looked like he was about to faint. "For the crime of treason against the people of the Bay of Dragons; for the crime of treason against your Queen; I, Daenerys Targaryen, sentence you to death."

The Queen was radiant. No one watching the events unfolding in the pit could doubt her majesty. But then something unexpected happened. Daenerys, his glorious Queen, didn't move away from the pyre. She was practically standing on top of the outermost ring when she sang out for her dragons and ordered them to set fire to the pyre. The three Dragons obliged and released each their small stream of fire against the rings. The tarred kindling rings caught fire immediately and surrounded the pyre with flames. Soon the entire pyre was ablaze, and the screams of the condemned only rivalled the desperate screams of the Queen's council as she stepped further into the pyre.

As the screams of the dying rose towards the heavens, Grey Worm sank to his knees, his face soaked with tears. He registered a pair of arms encircling him; his beloved Missandei had come to his side, her expression equally devastated. Soon the screams died out, and Grey Worm's hopes shattered. His composure shattered completely and he sank into Missandei's arms, sobbing.

Hours passed, but for Grey Worm, each minute felt like a century. Finally, as the sun rose above the horizon, the flames died down and only embers and coals were left. Or? There, in the middle, a figure rose. Grey Worm felt for certain that he was going mad until he heard a voice whispered at his side "Unburnt.." Looking to his side, he could see Missandei standing up and beginning to walk towards the figure. The picture forming before him was like something out of legends. Sure, he had heard the title many a time, and sure, he had heard the story she told about how her dragons were born, but how could one truly believe such a tale? 

There she stood, defiant, stronger than ever, and with an indisputable air of majesty. Grey Worm fell to his knees in a kneel before her, knowing without needing to look that the rest of the pit followed his lead. 

Daenerys Targaryen, the Unburnt, and with five baby dragons clinging to her body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it will be quite some time before Daenerys eventually goes west. It will be interesting to see how the situation in Westeros develops in the mean time. How are Sansa and Cercei planning on dealing with each other? Will Dorne stay stable? Will the entire place be overrun with white walkers?
> 
> Stay tuned!
> 
> I am not quite sure where the characters will end up in this story of mine. Daenerys and Jon will be endgame, but I am uncertain about Tyrion and Sansa.
> 
> Tyrion up until season 5 was a witty, grey-moralled, great character, but he kind of sucked once he departed Westeros, and completely sucked once he returned.  
> While it is therapeutic for me to "get revenge" on his season 7 and 8 trespasses, I would love to see him restored to the character I loved watching in those earlier seasons. However, I am simply not sure if I'm good enough to write the kind of character Tyrion used to be ^^;
> 
> The situation with Sansa is a bit different. I loved how she was cunning and managed to play the long game by being curteous to her captors, but Dumb and Dumber ran into the same problem that I have with Tyrion in that they simply weren't good enough writers to handle her, and she turned into a massively useless bitch. It would be enjoyable to let season 8 Sansa be, and expose all the holes in her independence plan, but at the same time... I miss old Sansa, and I would like to do her justice. 
> 
> What are your thoughts on this?


	5. A Dandelion in Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for late entry you guys! Work sort of swamped all my energy, and... yeah. You’ve probably all been there, so you know what I’m talking about.
> 
> More notes at the end!

#### Margaery

\- 3 months earlier -

Smoke and dust filled her mouth and made it impossible to breathe. Her entire world was scorching air, icy stone, and that damned dust. She coughed some more. Then some more. Phlegm gathered in her throat and she spat it out. She couldn’t see where it landed but she wouldn’t have been surprised if it had immediately hardened into concrete.

A minuscule amount of light shone in and let her see just how she was still alive. The upper half of The Crone had broken off and fallen where she and Lorax had managed to scurry to. The Goddesses’ body had shielded the siblings from the blast and provided a ceiling for the rest of the keep to fall on.

“We made it, Loras!” She cried out.

No response.

Maybe she had forgotten to say it out loud? She had made that mistake before, thinking something and believing herself to have voiced it. “We made it!” She repeated.

Still no answer.

Margaery looked down to where her hand was still grasping his, only to feel the floor disappear under her as she saw that from the elbow up, the rest of her sweet brother was crushed under a boulder. A cry loud enough to be heard across the city failed to escape her lips, and the young queen found herself soundlessly sobbing as the reality dawned upon her before she passed out.

———————————————————————————————————————————

She still didn’t quite understand how they had done it, but rescue workers from the city had eventually managed to dig her out. When she had woken up, she was lying on a cot in one of the orphanages of Flea bottom. She recognised it by the wooden toy soldiers standing guard around her, understanding that this would have to be one of the orphanages she had been a patron of.

“I need to see my husband..” was her first request as the matron came into the room and noticed that she was awake. 

The old woman had just nodded sadly. The king had passed, she could report, no doubt by the hand of his Lannister whore mother who had wasted no time but had herself crowned the very next day.

Margaery sunk where she sat. “No she wouldn’t,” she said quietly to herself. “Your Grace?” The old woman asked, still referring to the woman before her as queen, even though her king husband was now dead, and she too was thought lost in the rubble of the Sept of Baelor. Margaery looked determined up into the matron’s eyes so that there could be no misunderstanding in what she said. “Cersei loved Tommen more than anything in the world. She would never have intentionally done anything to harm him. Sweet fool, oh my poor darling.”

Being honest with herself Margaery knew that she had never loved Tommen. He had been the job. And she had done the job well. Sure, she had come to care for him, like one would a loyal pet: the boy hadn’t possessed a single mean bone in his body, and had Margaery been given enough time with him, he could have been one of the truly great kings.

The Matron, buying Margaery’s act of grieving widower, put a wrinkly hand upon the young Lady’s shoulder and stroked her back sympathetically.

They sat like this for a while until the matron had to leave the room to tend to the children, and keeping up appearances Margaery gratuitously excused her. Besides, being alone gave her time to think of the next move.

She needed to get home.

To Highgarden.

With Joffrey and Tommen both gone there was no puppet-husband she could marry for the throne, and this mission was thereby a failure. The game was over for now, and she needed to go home and re-set the board, re-evaluate the pieces. Besides, with Cersei, who had always despised her, on the throne, Kings Landing wasn’t safe for her even if she did find a suitable suitor. 

But how would she get home? The city guards all knew her face, and would probably drag her before Cersei if they got their hands on her. She needed someone to smuggle her out. She looked at the door. The Matron could maybe be persuaded to relocate the orphanage if Margaery sweetened the deal enough?

At supper that night, Margaery presented her plan. If the matron agreed to help her to Highgarden, Margaery would make sure the orphanage would be given much better facilities in a cleaner area. The Rose Town that surrounded Highgarden was much smaller than Kings Landing, sure, but the quality of life was overall much better there. 

The matron didn’t object much, having wanted to leave the stinking streets of flea bottom for years, only they’d have nowhere to go. The only condition was that they would have to take everyone and everything with them in one go. No child left behind in the capital to be collected at a later time. 

Margaery’s brow furrowed. While no one would have a problem with the citizen increase to Rose Town, this did prove some logistical difficulties. Most of them could walk alongside a carriage, but they would need at least two carts to conceal her on the way out of town as well as carrying their belongings. Luckily, orphans generally didn’t own much.

“Leave the logistics to me,” the matron suddenly declared, slapping her own thigh with a loud clap. “You just keep your word about our new lodgings, Your Grace, and I’ll see you safely home to the Reach!”

Though not completely confident in the older woman’s abilities, Margaery simply smiled sweetly, the way her grandmother had taught her, and nodded her agreement.

———————————————————————————————————————————

And so, a week later, Margaery Tyrell, technically dowager Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, found herself hiding in a dodgy old cabinet that was strapped shut along with tables, chests and dozens of wooden toy soldiers to one of two carts drawn by the four skinniest oxen she had ever seen. Oh how she longed to see them grass fed on the fields of the Reach! She bet the poor animals had never actually seen a proper field. Seven hells what a shit hole Kings Landing was.

As they rolled towards the city gates, Margaery did her best to not think of the fact that she was completely at the matron mother and her husband’s mercy. If they got to the guards and decided to make quick coin, they could sell her out before she had time to blink. 

Luckily, (she would be told this later on the journey) the guards had taken one glance at the starving orphan caravan heading in their direction and stepped aside in order to not have to deal with that kind of racket, just glad to see them leaving their jurisdiction. In all honesty, Margaery had kind of also counted on this to happen.

The journey took two weeks of determined trudging before they reached the outer walls of Rose Town. Just like the guards in Kings Landing, her late father’s guards had at first seemed negative to this sudden influx of poor people, knocking at their doors in wartime, but once she revealed herself, the city gates couldn’t be opened quickly enough.

Margaery had always prided herself with being a learned, eloquent person, but there were no words in her vocabulary adequate to describe the feelings unleashed when she entered the main courtyard of Highgarden’s keep and she saw her grandmother come rushing out the great doors and down the stairs towards her.

With a stifled cry, the two women crashed into each other’s arms and the rest of the world ceased to exist. 

And it really could have. The world could literally explode in another blast of wildfire right at that moment, and Margaery would have been the happiest she had ever been in her life.

«Grandmother,” Margaery started once the world had stopped spinning and her feet were back on solid ground, “this is mr. and mrs. Waters. They ran one of the orphanages I was patron of in King’s Landing. They are the reason I got here safe and sound.”

The old woman let go of hugging her thought-to-be deceased favourite granddaughter, by kept ahold of her hand. “House Tyrell, and I, personally is forever in your debt!” She then curtsied as deep as her old bones would allow her. The matron mother looked both awkward, considering she had never experienced what it looks like when a high born person pays their respects to you, and in awe at the honour of the same thing. “We only did what was right to save the Queen,” mrs. Waters said, trying to replicate the curtsy, but as expected, failing horribly. Olenna didn’t mind, the thought behind it was all that counted right now. “Besides, we’ve been looking for a way out of that snake’s nest for years, and Queen Margaery promised us that we could build a home for us and the young’uns here at Highgarden.”

The Queen of Thorns nodded approvingly. “Rose Town is a nurturing place to grow up in. My family has taken steps towards elevating the poorest among us for years, I am confident when I say moving here would be a huge step up in comfort for your large family.” She looked down for a second and took a breath. “However, I don’t think that is in your cards.” 

Margaery could see the look of trust shattering in a million pieces on mrs. Waters’ face. Here she had abandoned a shit, but secure, facility in Kings’ Landing, believing that her future would be all set once she reached Highgarden. “My Lady, the Queen gave us her word..” the poor woman stuttered, her mind racing a mile a minute trying to puzzle together how she would fend for her charges now. Then, Lady Olenna lifted her head again, looking the other woman straight in the eye. 

“Brightwater keep has stood masterless ever since the Florents foolishly sided with Stannis Baratheon in the War of the Five Kings. Considering your great service to my house, and your large family, I would elevate you to lordship over their domain as a new noble house!”

Now, it was Margaery’s turn to be taken aback. “Grandmother, how is this possible? Only royalty has the legitimacy to elevate someone’s stature thus high!” Olenna shot her granddaughter a clever smile. “You don’t think I would stay allegiant to the King’s Landing Whore after all she’s done to our family? Once the news of your death reached me, I summoned the prominent houses of the Reach to council, and the outcome was this: we will keep working in the shadows, growing strong, and then, when the Whore Queen least expects it, I will have my revenge, and she will die a death that makes what she did to your father and brother pale in comparison. Two weeks ago, the house Hightower and Tyrell joined forces. I am now officially the Queen of the Reach, and Willem Hightower is my heir. I can legitimise whomever I want, and who better than the ones who have given me back my reason to live?” 

Affectionally, she reached out and grabbed Margaery’s hand, squeezing it like she still couldn’t believe they were both standing in the same courtyard, together and very much alive.

“What are your given names?” Demanded the Queen of Thorns, and the Waters’ fell to their knees, completely at a loss for how to process all this new information. “Rhaena, Your Grace.” Answered mrs. Waters. “Me ma named me after the old Queen. And my husband ‘ere’s Thammas.”

Margaery herself curtsied and stayed with her knee bent, watching as her grandmother drew a rose-hilted sword and rested its blunt side on mrs. Waters’ left shoulder. “Then I, Olenna Tyrell, Thorn Queen of the Reach, the first of my name, name thee Rhaena Dandelion of Brightwater keep, a name you may bestow any progeny you claim as your own. Will you swear to follow and serve the Rose throne, now and always?” The newly created Lady Dandelion lifted her gaze hesitantly and looked at the two Tyrells. “Yes?” She said slowly, questioningly. “Now and always,” Margaery whispered in reply with a sincere smile on her face, and the older woman looked down again, clearing her throat to speak louder and more dignified this time: “Now and always!” she declared. Olenna Tyrell nodded contently and moved to perform the same ritual on the man who would be Lord Dandelion. He too responded with a clear “Now and always!” And Olenna bid them both rise.

The ceremony over, Margaery’s grandmother sheathed the sword again and smiled at the fresh nobles. “You might think me silly for choosing to name you after a weed, but if you think about it, the Dandelion is one of our most humble, yet resilient flowers. I hope the imagery of your name will give you inspiration for how to live your life. You’ve already proven strong enough to bloom in adversity, given your years in King’s Landing. But that’s all over now.” Olenna shook her head and lifted her skirts, making to return to her chambers. “I’ll draw up your official letters of nobility, but you are welcome to stay here for a month or two before we escort you to your new home. Unless you want to go straight away that is? You really should wait so that you’ll have the letters with you when you first enter the keep, though.” 

Olenna hadn’t looked at the Lord and Lady Dandelion the entire time she was talking about their new options, and Lady Dandelion has no better reply than: “We will stay for as long as you deem convenient, Your Grace!” And did another awkward curtsy. 

Olenna simply nodded and disappeared inside, leaving servants and guards to help the Dandelions get settled.

Once inside, and safe from prying eyes and ears, Margaery helped her grandmother get seated and knelt next to her. “I half expected you to rescind my word and have them killed!” She whispered, completely in awe with her grandmothers sudden rise in station. Olenna cupped Margaery’s face in her hand and smiled. “I couldn’t very well do that. I meant what I said about them giving me back my reason to live. Before today, I only drew breath to plot Cersei’s demise. Now I have a future beyond that moment to live for! Besides, the Florents have been an annoying thorn in our family’s shoe for too long, always hinting that they have a better claim as heirs to the Gardeners. Now, the main house is gone, and their seat has been given away to someone else.” 

Margaery smirked “Oh, how I’ve missed you, Grandmother!” Olenna’s features softened and they embraced again “And I you, my Rose. And I you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tldr; Margaery survives the Sept of Baelor and escapes Kings Landing with the help of an orphanage matron and her husband.
> 
> In the time between losing most of her family and the events of this chapter, Olenna has teamed up with the Hightowers to make the Reach secretly independent. 
> 
> Olenna holds the title as Queen with the eldest Hightower boy as her heir. Once she is dead, the Rose throne will move from Highgarden and back to Oldtown like in the days before the Gardeners. Willas and Garland are alive in this story, but instead of inheriting his grandmother’s throne, Garland will “simply” inherit the “normal” noble seat of Highgarden as Lord Tyrell. (Yes, this will be discussed in character in a later chapter)


	6. The Last of the Starks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I’m writing this thing on my mobile phone, so when I write Cersei’s letter, stupid autocorrect titled her as “Queen of the sandals” (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)
> 
> If you see any other mistakes that I’ve not noticed as I was writing, feel free to speak up!

#### Arya

If Catelyn Stark could see them now, she would probably have fainted. Up to a minute ago, they had been sitting quietly in Jon’s study. He was sat bent over a desk, working out the logistics of troop placements and answering letters, Sansa was hard at work trying to make some actually presentable pieces of clothing for the king, rather than his old, plain, worn-out gambesons, Bran was reading a book with Summer sleeping at his feet, and Arya herself was polishing her weapons. The room had a pleasant quietness over it. The firewood was crackling in the fireplace, and the ambient of rustling papers and turning pages was only lifted occasionally when Sansa would start to hum a tune or sing quietly to herself and Jon would join in. Even with death roaming beyond the wall and Cersei’s assassins poking around the Neck, the four remaining Starks we’re enjoying a period of peace. 

This peace, however, was abruptly shattered when Jon suddenly coughed loudly, then began chuckling, then almost fell out of his chair laughing. Sansa’s reaction was to merely look up, quirk an eyebrow and then walk over to snatch the note from his hand and read for herself what could possibly be so funny. Arya watched intently. If her sister would lose her composure as completely as her brother had just done, that image would certainly be one that she would want to commit to memory. 

Sansa snorted, a far cry from Jon’s hysterical reaction, but her red headed sister’s lips stretched into a wide grin. “Oh, that dumb bitch!” she chuckled with a full-bodied eye roll and handed the note to Arya. Her interest piqued, Arya took the raven scroll from her sister and read its contents:

_Mr. Snow. It is time to end this childish rebellion. You and your family did unlawfully take Winterfell from its rightful owners as declared by the Crown, the Boltons. However, we are willing to forgive this treasonous act if you immediately come to King’s Landing to bend the knee, bringing with you the severed head of the traitor bitch Lady Sansa Bolton.  
Sincerely, Cersei of house Lannister. The first of her name. Queen of the Andals, the Roynar and the First Men. Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm_

Arya snorted and looked at her siblings. “Well, that’s it then. Come on, Sansa, off to the headman’s rock we go.”  
Sansa’s reply was nothing more than an exasperated shake of her head as she went to take her seat by the fireplace again. “That dumb, fucking bitch.” She laughed quietly to herself as she picked up her sewing again. In the meantime, Jon had climbed up from the floor and into his armchair again. He mirrored Sansa’s head-shaking chuckle before he looked up again, completely failing to keep a straight, serious face. “Well, obviously we’re not doing that.” He stated, and then reality hit and he was back to brooding. “And that means we can not count on the Southrons for aid against the army of the dead. What’s more, we’ll be fighting a two-front war.” His face sank into his hands and his finger dig up through his dark curls. Arya had noticed that brushing his fingers through his hair was a mannerism Jon often resolves to when he needed to think.

And he was right. Peaceful as the last couple of months may have been since they took back their ancestral home, the reality was that an army of ice zombies were roaming the lands beyond the wall, waiting for an opportunity to move south and kill everyone they could find. Arya hadn’t seen them herself, but the stories Jon and other survivors from Hardhome had told were too similar, and too harrowing to not be real. Therefore, ever since Jon had been proclaimed King, the noble houses in the North had been roused from hibernation and everyone had been in a state of preparation. Food had been gathered and rationed, the glass houses were under reparation in case the winter turned out to be too long for their stores, walls and keeps were being fortified in preparation for sieges. The first month, Jon had tried to gather the entire population of the North in and around Winterfell, as no one had any idea when or from what direction the army might descend upon them. Then, thank the Gods, things had quieted down. More people than ever had been stationed at the wall, scouting shifts were placed all along its icy peak, ravens at the ready in case someone spotted a frosted corpse. At every keep, battlements we’re being built, tar was readied, every splinter of Valyrian steel was dug out of the armoires. Everyone too sickly or too old were sent to Bear Island and other off-shore settlements for protection, whilst the rest of them received daily training in the courtyards. On the other side of the North, the Reeds and their Crannogmen were making the Neck as impassable as humanly possible. No Lannister army would be allowed to march through those marches without losing half their headcount.

“We still have the Vale?” Sansa offered to try and lighten her brother’s perspective. “SweetRobin assured us that he would pledge his armies to the fight against the dead.” Jon, still with his head buried in his hands nodded. “Uncle Blackfish recently took back Riverrun, and I doubt Olenna is going to bend the knee to her granddaughter’s murderer.” Arya had noticed that Sansa’s back had become increasingly less relaxed and more ramrod-straight as she spoke. From her stories from King’s Landing, Arya had understood that her Sister and the Rose of Highgarden had been close. United in their mutual disgust of Joffrey, and having to pretend to love him, she assumed. “So that is the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and the Reach. I bet we can count out Dorne as well. Not much left of Cersei’s Seven kingdoms,” Arya noted. “Well as an upside to things, that means she only has the armies of the Crownlands, the Westerlands and the Stormlands to call on. Robb took out most of the Lannister armies, Renly and Stannis between them emptied the Stormlands before Ramsay finished them off, and the Crownlands never really had much of an army to begin with. See? I paid attention to some of my lessons.” 

Sansa visibly relaxed at this, and her shoulders descended to a less headache-inducing altitude. “Not the lessons you were supposed to be in though!” She quipped and threw a ball of yarn at her younger sister. Arya shrieked and batted the oncoming ballistic away with her free hand.

“What about the Targaryen girl?”

Bran’s voice had rung out, and like a void it had devoured all other voices in the room, leaving it eerily quiet. He had promised Arya to stop doing that, but she guessed it was a difficult trait to shake.

Jon’s face slowly came to peek through his fingers at his younger brother. “You mean, as an ally?” Bran simply nodded. Stories from the traders in White Harbour told of how the exiled princess had hatched three dragons and reconquered the lands of her ancestors. All Arya had ever been told of Valyrian was that after the Doom it was but a desolate wasteland with toxic fumes and men mad from grayscale roaming its shores. Somehow, the stories told, Daenerys Targaryen had managed to make the place habitable again and built a grand glittering city. However, “Why would she come to our aid? Our families don’t exactly have the best history.” Sansa was the one who had spoken, but the words were like taken directly from Arya’s mouth.

“Because she will want to protect her last living relative from the clutches of death”

“Maester Aemon died over two years ago, Bran.”

“I am talking about you, Jon.”

“Excuse me?”  
Jon had a look on his face like he was looking at Ghost and Summer on their hind legs doing the tango, an expression that both of his sisters mirrored as three Starks stared bewildered at a fourth.

“Sam is on his way from the citadel as we speak, carrying with him the paperwork to prove what I have seen. Ned Stark was not your father, and you are not a bastard. You are the true born son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. You are not really our brother, but our cousin, and the rightful heir to the Seven kingdoms. Father brought you with him to the North under the pretence that you were his bastard so that Robert wouldn’t have you murdered. Your name isn’t Jon Snow, the name your mother, our aunt Lyanna, gave you before she died was Aegon Targaryen.”

Arya felt like someone had dropped her from the sky, and Winterfell had turned into a teapot, and she was willing to bet that the feeling was mutual for Jon and Sansa too. In fact, it was confirmed when Jon repeated himself:

“Excuse me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Summer is still alive. I remember after I watched “the door” that while everyone was up in arms about Hodor’s horrible faith, I had barely registered that his death was sad, because I was still reeling over Summer’s pointless death. So. My story, my rules: Summer survives. She’s a good girl.
> 
> And as you might see, I’ve made up my mind. I might write a reactionary doc later on, in which s8 Sansa gets her due, but in this fix I’d rather focus on what the Starks could have been, had they been allowed to stay true to their characters


	7. Brooding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might seem arrogant, but I hope those of you who like this fic will enjoy this chapter now that we’re all stuck inside.
> 
> It seems I’m not a good enough writer to produce particularly long chapters yet, but practice makes perfect. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!   
> Please feel free to voice your opinions in the comment section. I might not always agree with you, but at least we can have a conversation :)

####  Jon 

The room had been spinning ever since Bran’s revelation, and whatever his siblings might have been trying to say had all disappeared in a blur. “Please excuse me,” he had managed to mumble as he broke out of the room and headed to the only place that could give him clarity right now. When the walls finally stopped bulging, the hallway before him stopped twisting, and the floor returned to be underneath his feet, he found himself standing in the crypts before his father’s statue. Except it wasn’t his father’s statue. The man pictured before him had never been his true father, but his uncle. The man that raised him, cared for him and let him love him had been instrumental in the overthrowing and murder of his real father, the Targaryen prince whose name he had known his entire life as the kidnapper and rapist of his so-called aunt. 

Jon cradled his head in his hands and groaned. This was all too much! For a split second, the idea that it was all a terrible dream entered his mind, but then he remembered that Bran’s visions had proven to be true before, why would he suddenly lie about something like this?

Looking up at Ned Stark’s stone face, Jon struggled to make sense of the feelings raging within him. He felt a deep sorrow, as always, at looking at the man he knew as his father, knowing that they would never speak again. He felt frustrated that the only man who for certain held the answers to his questions was dead and beyond the reach of any raven. He felt rage, and betrayed, that the man who had raised him as his own had lied to him his entire life, but most of all: he felt unsettled, uncertain. Who did that make him, then?

His whole life up until now he had borne the identity of Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. With that identity he had risen to be Lord Commander if the Night’s Watch, and then he had been welcomed back into the Stark family after having fought tooth and nail for their ancestral home. Finally, though he still bore his bastard name, Jon had felt included; as one of the pack; as a Stark.

But it was all a lie.

Sinking to his knees before his now-known uncle’s statue, Jon was too tired to fight his own emotions and thus let his despair and conflicting thoughts consume him. His mind was racing a mile a minute trying to make sense of it all, constantly winding back in loops and twists. Until he thought of her.

Jon raised his head out of his hands and cast a long glance down the corridor. Ned Stark’s statue couldn’t offer him any clarity, but maybe the woman who had birthed him could? 

His bones felt stiffer than frozen tar, but somehow he made it into a standing position and shuffled his way down the corridor, in a manner not unlike that of the white walkers, until he was standing face to face with the effigy of Lyanna Stark.

Or was it Lyanna Targaryen? Bran had said he’d seen them marry, meaning that Jon wasn’t even the bastard son of Rhaegar Targaryen, but his true born son and a prince of Westeros. Jon’s head started spinning again. How would this affect his reign now? He was King in the North through the Northmen’s love of Ned Stark. If they knew he was a Targaryen he would, on one hand be able to shed the stigma of being bastard-born, but on the other hand they might loathe him for his Targaryen blood, despite the fact that Stark blood ran just as true in his veins.

He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, looking up at his mother, or even how he had ended up in a sitting position, when a tray was placed beside him on the cold dungeon floor. “You know, none of it matters to us. You are, and have always been our brother.”

Jon’s head whipped around in surprise to see that Arya had placed herself at his side. Sighing, she sat down beside him, broke off a piece of the bread that apparently was lying on the tray, and dipped it in the broth that was also there. Jon Snow has never been this slow to pick up on details in his immediate surroundings.

“Of course, unless you want it to matter,” Arya continued and popped the soup-soaked bread in her mouth, chewing slowly to give him time to mull it over and form a reply. “I mean, technically, by the old standards, you are higher ranked than us now: the rightful heir to the Iron throne and everything!”

“I don’t want it,” was all he could say.

And it was true. Sort of.  
Becoming King in the North, and ruling from his ancestral home had been a great validation for him, and he was certain he could do well in this position. Besides, it felt good to show the ghost of Catelyn Stark that she had been wrong to hate him, and that he had succeeded despite her prejudice. But that didn’t mean that he wanted to become King of all of Westeros. Sure, it would be an even greater revenge to his step-mother’s memory, but the South was unknown territory for him. They were not his people. It was not his home.

The North was. The Starks might have ruled the North, but his name _was_ the North. He had strived for so long to do good for the people of the North, the people beyond the wall included, whilst the rest of the world might as well not exist. Now suddenly, he had an aunt, his only kin left on his father’s side, on the other side of the world, and who didn’t even know he existed.

How would she react to these news? Having no idea how to process it himself, he could only imagine how she’d react.

“She‘ll probably have me burnt to a crisp before I can even finish my sentence,” he chuckled and shook his head.

“You’re thinking about the dragon queen?” Arya looked up at him. “Who knows. She might just be glad to learn that she still has some family left.”

“I’m not family though. We’re just related. I know nothing about any of them besides what the history books tell. Lyanna Stark may have loved me as a true mother should, but the only mother figure I’ve ever known is yours. You are my family, no matter whose blood I might share.”

Jon was wearing his famous brooding face, but Arya’s face was smiling warmly. “Well at least it’s good you know that,” she stood up and embraced him, them both being short people his head reached her stomach. “We are your family, and you will always be my big brother, no matter what blood might run through your veins.”

Though finding it hard to feel truly happy amidst all the confusion, Arya’s words relieved Jon. He leant his head on her and put a hand on hers. “And you will always be my little sister.”


	8. Mother of Dragons

#### Daenerys

Heat had always had a cleansing effect on her. Ever since she was a little girl, living on the streets or going from benefactor to benefactor with Viserys, a bath in scalding hot water had always seemed to melt all her concerns away. When she thought about it, she had always been the unburnt, even before the birth of her sons.

And daughters.

She had daughters now.

Daenerys smiled and turned in her tub so that she could lean her arms on the edge like a pillow for her head. Strewn like flowers fallen from a broken vase, her five hatchlings were lying all over the pillow and table intended to be their nest. Sure, two of them were huddled together like a cuddly knot in the middle of the pillow, one had rolled out and was lying on the edge of the table, constantly almost falling, and the last two had fallen down on the floor and made themselves comfortable on the cool stone. Warmly, she remembered the night she had brought them back to the pyramid for the first time.

> She had walked, naked, from the fighting pit to the great pyramid, her five new children clinging to her body as her three eldest had once done. Her Westerosi councillors had been alarmed at the indecency of her lack of clothing, but she simply shrugged off their complaints.
> 
> “I am the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. We apply no shame to the human body. I am dressed in nothing but soot and salt because I just walked out of a bonfire unharmed and with 5 newborn dragons. Where is the indecency in that? What part of that is shameful? I recognise only its strength.”
> 
> Few pleasures were as great as the one derived from striking the Imp of Westeros mute.
> 
> Once she had reached her chambers in the great pyramid though, she welcomed the wool tokar Lord zo Fator offered her. It wasn't because she had changed her stance on the strength and honour of the naked form, but rather that the Meereenese night was quite a bit chillier than the roaring inferno of a sizeable pyre. With Lord zo Fator’s handmaidens’ help, she had the tokar draped around her according to the Meereenese fashion and walked out on the balcony overlooking the city. As her figure hademerged on the balcony she heard them call out to her: “Mhysa! Mhysa!” and she had proudly lifted her hands in triumphant reply to her people. The crowds had cheered, and Daenerys had thought to herself that tonight, she was truly their Queen. That night she had felt that she hadn't simply been the foreign conqueror who had assumed rule over their city, but she had fought _their_ cause, and put _their_ enemies to justice. Finally, she was one of them.
> 
> She had stayed on the balcony for a while until she felt one of the hatchlings grip starting to slip. The little body had started to fall, and Daenerys had shot out a hand to capture her falling child. "I think it's time we retreat, huh, little one?" she had cooed. The little dragon had been lying on its back in her arms, looking up at her with sparkling amethyst eyes. Her scales were the same silver-gold as Daenerys' hair, and with hints of purple from under the scales whenever she stretched.
> 
> "Rhaellys," Daenerys had sighed and ran a finger from the top of the dragon's head to her tummy. "I name you for my mother, little one." And with that she had placed the newly-named dragon on her bed and searched her body for the others.
> 
> Under the tokar, on her hip, she had found a brown and copper dragon with eyes of deep forest-green. "If Rhaellys is named for my mother, then you will be named for the man who acted as my father. According to the books Ser Jorah gave me, house Darry's colours are brown and black, and so I will name you for dear Ser Willem. Darrial will be your name, sweetling." Darrial had purred as she placed him on the mattress next to his sister. Then, before she had time to locate the next babe, it had come climbing over her shoulder and down her arm.
> 
> His scales were deep blue, like the evening sky after the sun has set, and his eyes were like a starlit night. He looked like the epitome of Dothraki royalty "Rakharion" she had murmured. "Your namesake was my very first bloodrider. I will name you after him so that you may remind me of those who have perished, fighting for me."
> 
> As she had moved to place him next to the two others, a small shadow had pounced out from her right. The two dragons had rolled around, playfully snapping at each other and purring happily. Smiling, Daenerys had picked up the little black one and let it sit on her hand so that she could see it properly. At first, she had thought she might be looking at a miniature Drogon, but this dragon had softer colouring than her eldest son had. Her scales were dark charcoal grey, with underscale colours of orange and red, like a little ember. "I'm going to name you after the shepherd's little girl. You will remind me to be mindful of my power and that you all need a lot of care to thrive and not lash out. Hazzeah was her name, and now it is yours." As if having understood her mother's words, Hazzeah had launched herself off Daenerys hand, tried to soar across the bed, but failed and crashlanded onto her siblings, who immediately had swarmed her in playful bites and playfighting.
> 
> Now, Rhaellys, Darrial, Rakharion and Hazzeah. That made four. Not having felt any more claws on her body, Daenerys had started looking around for the fifth hatchling, for a second panicking, fearing that she might have lost the babe on her way from the pit to the pyramid when she heard chirping. Frantically, she had searched around her for the sound until she opened a fold in her tokar and two black-as-ink eyes peered up at her. Daenerys had sighed with relief and used both hands to pluck the little dragons out of the woollen folds. Her scales were a mixture of reds, oranges, yellows and golds, like a sunset. Tears had started to pool in Daenerys' eyes, and she hadn't been able to completely place the source of her emotions until the dragon had hopped from her hands and joined the playfighting on the bed. "Irri.." Daenerys had whispered, remembering and sorely missing her dearly departed handmaiden. Having not been able to protect her dear friend would always be one of Daenerys greatest regrets, but the least she could do was name her child after her. "Irryn. Your name is Irryn, little one." The dragon named Irryn had stopped her playing and looked up at her mother, holding her gaze for a moment as if communicating that she had understood, before returning to the battle.

Smiling fondly at the memory, Daenerys leant back again in her tub and let her shoulders sink. Since the execution of the Yunkai rebels, relative peace had descended upon Daenerys' realm. Re-building an economy whose only source of income had been the slave trade had certainly been a challenge, and there had been a lot of discontent, especially from the upper classes. In the lower classes, the former slaves had struggled to find their place in her new world, and many had, in the beginning, asked for permission to sell themselves back into servitude. But Daenerys had stood her ground. People were allowed to work in servitude for a fair wage, but all houses had to reconcile themselves with the fact that inspections to make sure no one was abusing their positions and their employees could happen at any time and without warning. Daenerys had been mindful of the council that this right too could be abused, and by some viewed as tyranny, and had it been any other soldiers she might have agreed to be careful, but her unsullied soldiers had this far always behaved impeccably and incorruptible, and she would continue to hold faith in them until proven otherwise.

"Dragons plant no trees" was a phrase she had heard often as she grew up, but that was just rubbish. The Targaryan dynasty had planted the seeds to a three hundred year long dynasty that took Westeros from a petty feudal backwater to a grand empire. Likewise, the Valyrian freehold had dominated the known world for a millennia before the doom. Dragons did indeed plant trees. And those trees grew grander and stronger than any other.

Herself she had just planted the sapling for the restoration of the Bay of Dragons. The bards and minstrels she had hired had left the Bay of Dragons to sing songs and perform mummery of her triumphs. Ballads were sung of the «Maid Missandei and the Butcher», «The Man Who Thought He Could Buy a Dragon» and «Born of Storm and Justice». The good reputation those songs had earned her had persuaded workers from the Free Cities to travel to her realm, providing knowledge and competence in highly valuable trades. With their help, farms had been set up outside the walled cities. Beans, grapes and saplings of trees had been planted, and ditches for irrigation had been built. It had been a few months, and now they were starting to see results from the hard work. The labour-intensive work had been good for the high population of former slaves and provided them with something to do every day. Daenerys herself had helped in the fields, carrying saplings, forming watering lines, dug ditches. The hard work combined with her daily training sessions and governing and listening to peoples thoughts in the evening meant that by the end of the day, she was always completely tuckered out. It was a hard time to be the mother of five newborns, who always swarmed her when she finally came to bed, crying out for snuggles.

Her grown children had their demands as well. After finally having been freed from the dungeons of the great pyramid, Rhaegal and Viserion had made their nests in the hills outside the city. Thanks to the Dothraki who still lived near the city she was able to get regular reports on her sons, even if they didn’t come to visit all that often. She understood them well, it was difficult to find places in the city large enough for all of them to land as once. 

Because of this, she made sure to ride out and see them at least once a week. Riding Drogon across the sea of the Bay of Dragons, bathed in moonlight, while Rhaegal and Viserion circled them and chirped playfully at each other was a freeing feeling unlike any other. 

Daenerys felt like on dragon back was the only time she could truly be herself, rather than the Queen, or Khaleesi, or the last dragon of House Targaryen. 

This was especially true now that Missandei was not here. About a month ago, she had sailed off with some other Naathi former slaves, bound for the beaches of Naath and accompanied by some Second Son sailors as well as volunteers from the Unsullied. No Dothraki had reported any desire to step aboard the boat. 

While Daenerys missed her best friend something fierce, a part of her wished that Missandei would choose to stay in Naath and thus be safe from the dangers that always seemed to follow Daenerys.

Other parties had trickled out of the city lately, leaving it emptied and more easy to manage. Again, accompanied by sufficient security, former slaves were encouraged to go on a pilgrimage back to where they had been stolen from. With the help of Daenerys’ troops and funds they were to rebuild their former communities, or return to the Bay of Dragons and continue their lives as freedmen there. 

Of course, with this large exodus, they had become short on people to work the fields, leaving Daenerys to find her natural place to be on her knees in mud, planting rice, rather than prim and perfumed up on some pedestal overseeing. The work was backbreaking, but she enjoyed the bonds it allowed her to build, not only between her and the small folk, but also between the highborn (who had to do their fair share of the work as well) and their own former slaves and servants. “It is hard work now,” Daenerys had told the city council that they would all be expected to work, “but once we get the economy going, and the fields producing, we can look back on wealth well earned!”

She hadn’t exactly earned high applause from that speech. Be that as it may, after a few days, and some choice flights over the city, featuring all three dragons, the highborn too had started trickling into the fields every morning. 

Every night when she went to sleep under a pile of hatchlings, Daenerys felt proud and secure in the knowledge that the Bay of Dragons would thrive again, without slavery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for orders sake. Here’s the dragons and their colours:  
> Drogon - black and crimson  
> Viserion - cream and gold  
> Rhaegal - green
> 
> Hazzeah - charcoal grey and orange  
> Darrial - brown and copper  
> Rhakarion - dark blue  
> Rhaellys - silver-gold and purple  
> Irryn - red, orange, yellow, gold. Scales are more iridescent and colour-changing. Picture a candle.


End file.
